The Devil’s Redhead, page 17
His eyes watering from the cordite and smoke, he got to his feet, sneezed, and stumbled toward the Mercedes. Shattered glass covered the backseat, the car was riddled with holes, but from the looks of it all the shotgun fire had aimed high. The point, he guessed, was to kill the Mexicans, not the car. The upholstery and dash were shredded but the tires were good. The keys still hung from the ignition cylinder. He tried the door, struggled to get it open, swept the shattered glass off the upholstery, and sat. Gripping the steering wheel, his hands came away with blood. He rubbed his hands on his pant legs, wiped the wheel with his shirttail. He tried the ignition and gasped with joy when the engine turned over. He struggled with the gearshift, lodged the transmission into reverse, then backed out of the clearing and down the aisles of wreckage.
Abatangelo sat at a small, kidney-shaped table of yellow Formica in a place called Zippy Donuts. A fluorescent tube buzzed overhead, flashing dim shocks of light that caused the reflections in the window glass to jitter, like images in an old home movie. Across the table sat Jill Rosemond.
“I’ve been to a number of bars where the twins did their little act,” she said, “hustling pool. Three weeks, I’ve done this, from Modesto to Galt. You would not believe some of these places, or the creatures who inhabit them. That’s what I was trying to get through to your friend, Ms. Beaudry. I don’t have Frank Maas at the top of any list. From what I’ve seen, just about anybody could have killed those boys, given what they were up to.”
In the background the insomniac sweet-tooth crowd milled in and out. The donut shop was run by a Korean family, and the counter girl, her smile encaged in braces, rang the register brightly, thanking one and all with ferocious gratitude.
“No one ever forgot those two. None too many wanted to see them back. As for Frank Maas, I didn’t even know he existed till this afternoon. I got an address- ”
“How?” Abatangelo asked, interrupting.
Jill Rosemond cocked her head. She looked a little older in this light. Sleep deprivation, maybe. Money worries. Abatangelo wondered if she had children. Or dogs. She seemed the sort to have dogs.
“Addresses aren’t hard to come by,” she said.
“Let me see the printout,” Abatangelo said, extending his hand. When she affected puzzlement, he added, “You got an address for somebody you say you didn’t even know existed till this afternoon. That’s quick. Either a cop gave it to you or you bought it from an information mill.”
She thought it over a moment, then reached into her shoulder bag and removed a sheet of coarse gray paper almost identical to the one Eddy had given Abatangelo his first night out. He took it from her, read the addresses, and noticed the combination matched Shel’s up to the three-year mark, then things were different. The most recent address, cross-referenced to the registration of Shel’s truck, was the one Abatangelo knew. The Akers’ place.
“I thought you couldn’t access DMV information unless you intended to serve process,” he said, handing the paper back.
Jill Rosemond froze. “Who told you that?”
He liked her response. “You’ve got some paper to hang on Frank. A subpoena? Summons?”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself.”
“Why didn’t you go out to the house, instead of the bar?”
“I did go out. No one was there.”
“When was this?”
“Not long before I met up with you and Ms. Beaudry.”
Abatangelo considered this. It made sense, he supposed.
She added, “It’s not an easy place to find.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
She cocked her head again. “You said- ”
“I have an address. I never said I’d been out there.”
“Don’t insult me. I’ve got eyes. I’m not stupid. You and Lachelle- ”
“We just met.”
Jill Rosemond sat back and laughed. “Not possible,” she said. “Not from what I saw.”
“Appearances deceive. I’m sure, given your line of work, you’ve discovered that to be true.”
“You seemed very protective.”
“It’s my way.” He reached out his hand. “What other printouts did you get on this Frank character?”
Jill Rosemond laughed again, a little less naturally this time. “Excuse me?”
“A rap sheet,” Abatangelo said. “Or does that take longer than just a few hours?”
She studied him. “You still refuse to give me your name?”
We’ve been through this, Abatangelo thought. You didn’t like my answer. I’m new here. A stranger, just passing through.
“Who I am isn’t important. Not yet.”
“What’s your stake in this?”
“This?”
“The Briscoe murders.”
“Not a thing.”
“In Frank Maas, then.”
The beaming counter girl appeared, bearing a coffeepot. Her braces gleamed, her eyes quivered, strands of hair erupted from under her hair net. Abatangelo accepted a warm-up for fear of making her cry.
“Given what you’ve told me,” he said once the girl moved on, “given what I learned from Shel tonight, I’d say everyone involved has known happier times. I’m a firm believer in happier times. That’s my stake.”
“What did she tell you?”
“Later.”
“Why not now?”
“I need a better sense of what’s relevant, what’s not, before I say something that might drag her into your orbit.”
“What orbit is that?”
“Punishment.”
Jill Rosemond smirked and waved her hand. “You sound like her now.”
“You’ve got to account for two dead twins. You’re trying to tell me, if you find out who killed them, that’s it?”
“It’s the end of the matter for me, yes. I don’t have any power to go beyond that.”
“You hand it off to the law.”
“That’s my client’s decision, not mine.”
Abatangelo laughed.
She said, “I asked what your stake is in all this.”
“Like you won’t listen to what I have to say, regardless.”
“I’ll listen to anybody. Your friend was right in that regard. It doesn’t mean I’ll believe them. Or say yes if they ask for money.”
“I haven’t asked for money.”
“I’m impressed. It’s saintly of you.”
“That’s me. A true believer.”
“In happier times.”
“There you go.”
“Even if you have to remove Frank Maas from the picture.”
Abatangelo looked down, sipped his coffee. “I have no particular interest in seeing him suffer.”
“Then nothing you’ve said here makes sense.”
“I don’t recall saying much of anything.”
“You’ve said enough. Believe me. Look, I need to speak with him. Frank Maas.”
“I understand. I doubt you improved your chances given your performance tonight. You won’t have much luck getting any further following the same tack.”
“Which means you might come in handy.”
“Could be.”
“Do you think he’ll run?”
Abatangelo’s sense of Frank was that he resembled any number of goofs he’d come across over the years, in prison and out. The kind that never mean any harm but always end up making somebody suffer. The kind that always forget and never learn. Run? Hell yes. And take Shel with him.
“I’d say that’s a distinct possibility.”
“He won’t be doing himself any favors if he does.”
“It’s been my experience,” Abatangelo said, “that the people who crow loudest about standing tall are the ones who’ve never had to do it.”
“I’m not saying he’s a suspect.”
“But he’ll do. Especially if he runs.”
“What will it take,” she said, “to get you to tell me the rest of what you know?”
“A little more time.”
“How long?”
“I wish I knew.”
She sat there a moment, then gathered her keys and bag and rose from the table. Extending her hand, she said, “Next time, if there is a next time, please don’t go to so much trouble to lie to me. It only makes you sound like a loser.”
He took her hand, gripping it cordially, but said nothing. She turned, then, and exited Zippy Donuts, crossing the parking lot to her car. It was a station wagon, several years old, the sort a mother would drive.
It brought to mind the issue of children again. Not hers. Not the Briscoe brothers. He recalled what Shel had said, about her and Frank and a baby boy. A boy that got murdered. He pictured Shel holding the child, cradling him, and then discovering that the boy was dead, the body sprawled bloody and lifeless in her arms. Beaten with a hammer, he thought. Good God.
He gathered his things. It was time to go; he had some pictures to develop.
Chapter 12
Frank figured Roy would drive straight for Rio Vista to a veterinarian the brothers always talked about in the context of gunshot wounds. Frank chose a different route, taking back roads empty this time of night, and down which a bullet-riddled Mercedes diesel with shot-out windows, no taillights and only one good headlight would draw scant notice. Just under an hour later he arrived at the gate leading to the ranch house. No one was stationed there. All was still. Even so he parked the car in the culvert and slinked in, thinking he could dive into the grass and hide if he heard a car coming in or out. No one came. He reached the ranch house without incident and studied it from a distance for a while. It was dark, but that could mean anything. No one there. Everyone there, waiting. Waiting for me.
But they think you’re dead, he told himself. They think Snuff killed you.
He checked the yard for other cars, but none were there. The barn they used for a garage stood open, and only his truck was parked inside. Where was Shel? Getting closer to the house, he circled it twice, crouching beneath the windows, listening. No sound from inside. Finally, he went up the back steps and tried the door. It was locked. You don’t set up an ambush, he thought, then lock the door. He felt above the door frame where the extra key was hidden, found it and opened the door. The kitchen was dark. He was still fishing for the light switch when the phone rang.
Run, he thought. Now.
Instead, he turned on the light. No one came forward to kill him all over again, and on the tenth ring the phone went quiet. He staggered to the breakfast nook and collapsed.
A newspaper cluttered the table, someone had tried the crossword, and beside it sat an ashtray filled with menthol butts. Rowena, he thought. Her and her boy, Duval, they must still be at their movie. Waiting for Roy to show up.
A checkerboard and a cigar box full of chess pieces that belonged to Duval sat next to the newspaper. The boy was always going around asking everybody if they played chess. Frank had told him once, “I know how the pieces move.” The kid had said, “That’s jailbird chess.”
The phone rang again. It occurred to Frank it might be Shel. She should be here, she was here when I left. Maybe it’s somebody who knows where she is. He crossed the kitchen, let the phone ring one more time, then reached out cautiously for the receiver, thinking: If it isn’t her, hang up.
A car was coming. He stood there, one hand in the air, his head turned to the sound of the car as headlights broke the hill. Lurching to the window, he pushed the curtains aside and saw at once it wasn’t Shel. A gun, he thought. You survived fucking World War III and never once thought to bring back a gun. He stood there, pounding the sides of his head with the heels of his hands as the car came to a stop outside and a single man stepped out.
Frank looked for a place to hide. It was too late to turn out the light. He’d probably already been spotted through the curtain. To come this far, he thought, survive Roy’s killfire and Snuff’s manic blazing away and the sneaky drive home in the chewed-up Mercedes, only to be caught like a dog.
The driver of the car eased the back door open, calling out, “Lonnie?”
The voice was a stranger’s. Not Roy. Not Snuff or Tully. A stranger who seemed nervous. It was a setup. It was cops. Frank sat there, unable to get a word out.
“Who’s… come on, hey,” the voice said.
Frank cleared his throat. “Yeah?”
The door closed. Hesitant steps sounded in the hallway to the kitchen, and then the man appeared. Young man. Frank had no idea who he was.
“I was looking for Lonnie,” the guy said. He eyed Frank’s muddy clothing, his eyes darting around like hummingbirds. “Lonnie Dayball. He here?”
Dayball’s supposed to be here, Frank thought. That’s what this means. Get out.
“Lonnie ain’t here,” he said. “And you?”
The guy said his name, still standing in the doorway. The name meant nothing to Frank, he forgot it instantly. He wondered if the guy was armed. The guy pointed across the room. “I know you?”
This is it, Frank thought. He makes me, he runs out of here, finds Dayball.
“No,” he said. “Don’t think so.”
“I’ve hung Sheetrock with the brothers. You?”
“Yeah,” Frank said. “Must be. Gotcha.”
“You’re not…”
“Not what?”
The guy wiggled the finger he was pointing, like that helped him think. “There’s a guy lives here, name’s Frank Maas. You’re…”
Frank grimaced and shook his head. “Not me,” he said. “My name’s Mick. Mick Spielman.” It was the name of a kid Frank had gone to grade school with. He’d died in a car accident in fifth grade. Frank had used the name on and off over the years, when the need arose.
“Glad to meetcha,” the guy said.
“Same.”
“You know Frank? Frank Maas.”
“Know him, no,” Frank said. “Saw him tonight, though.” Taking a risk, he added, “Don’t think he’ll be coming back here.”
The guy laughed a nasty little laugh and relaxed a little. He leaned back against the doorjamb and nodded at Frank’s clothes. “So that’s it.”
Frank looked down at himself, as though surprised at the state he found himself in. He said, “What?”
“That thing with the nacho niggers.” There was a conspiratorial little wink in his voice. Like he wasn’t supposed to know. His eyes were eager.
“Yeah,” Frank said.
“And that fucked-up Mercedes out there.”
Frank shrugged, thinking. “Couldn’t leave it behind,” he managed.
“Damn,” the guy said with juvenile awe. “So tell me. How’d it go?”
“Go?”
“The Mexicans. Jesus.”
Careful, Frank thought. He considered a dozen different ways to say it, then settled on, “Caught ’em in the killfire.”
The guy nodded, grimacing with envy. “We come out okay? I mean, except for Frank, the lame fuck.”
Frank stared. The guy stared back.
“We good?”
“Yeah,” Frank said. “Better than good.”
The guy pumped his arm. Rooting for the home team. “That’s great,” he said. “That’s fabulous. Christ, no wonder you look wasted.”
Frank leaned back, let his body sag. “Yeah.”
“Listen,” the guy went on, “like I said, I’m supposed to connect with Lonnie Dayball. I’ve got his mobile number but the motherfucker’s outside range. Tells me to stay tuned, then this. I mean, really.”
“It’s fucked,” Frank ventured.
“Tell me about it. But that’s Dayball. Do what I tell you, and while you’re at it do what I didn’t tell you. Unless I shoulda told you not to. Round and around…”
“Why look for him here?” Frank asked.
The guy threw up his hands. “What else am I gonna do? Like I said, he’s outta range, the homo.”
“He due here?”
“I’m desperate,” the guy said. “He had me playing shads on Frankie Maas’s old lady. Never seen her before, either, but Dayball, you know how he is, says, She’s the only one out there. Anybody leaves, it’s her. Felix wanted her thinking she was cool but then told Dayball: Put a tail on her. So that’s my deal, I sat on the house tonight. And I got news. Oh yeah.”
Frank sat there, head tilted like he hadn’t quite gotten the last part right. His throat clenched. The guy kept talking, but the blood pulsing in Frank’s ears drowned out the sound. All he caught was, “… any ideas?”
Snapping to. “About?”
“Jesus, what’s wrong with you? Where I can find Dayball.”
“I can pass word on,” Frank said. The words came out without thought. “I see him, I’ll pass the word on.”
The guy shuffled from one foot to the other, murmuring to himself. “Fine. Yeah. Hell. Whoever gets there first. Here goes. I sat out on the road, hidden in that bunch of trees down the road from the gate, like Lonnie said. Sure enough, not fifteen minutes go by, red Pathfinder pulls out and turns toward town. Woman driving, bingo. I give her a few minutes, I mean, there’s nowhere to turn off, right? I pull out finally, put the tail on. I find her about a half mile away, pulled to the side. There’s some guy pulled up behind her. Where he came from, I don’t know. Big guy, tall, well built, short hair. Mean anything?”
Frank felt as though the top of his head was lifting off. “Big?” he said.
“He’s standing there at her car, they’re talking. I slow down, I’ll get made. So I blow on by, keep going till the Oakley turnoff, pull in, can the lights, wait. Maybe ten minutes later, they go by, one then the other. Guy’s driving a fucking Dart. Again, I figure, don’t follow too close. I wait a couple minutes. But this time they reach the highway. I lose ’em.”
Tall, Frank thought. Well built. A cop. In a Dart?
“I must’ve driven up and down the highway two, three hours. I’m thinking Lonnie’s gonna have my head. Then I pull in to Rafferty’s, you know it? Friend of mine hangs out there. Turns out he saw Frank’s old lady and this big guy there just a little while back. They got pretty oily with each other.”
Frank closed his eyes. “Tell me where again?”
